Little Boy Lost
by WriteOnForever
Summary: Before he was a curse upon Gotham, Jerome Valeska was just a child trying to survive. Pre-series, inspired by the latest episode.


Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to someone else.

" _I remember back in the circus, we used to dare each other to sneak into the chuck wagon, steal one of your cookies or two…You remember that time you caught me trying to snag a snickerdoodle? Oh! The soup you made that day…What was the special ingredient? Ah. Right. It was my hand. The one you dipped in a boiling pot of chicken stock!"_

~Jerome to Uncle Zach, "One of My Three Soups"

Little Boy Lost

"I triple dog dare you!"

There was a chorus of gasps as Malcolm looked smugly at Jerome, a smirk crossing his burly face. "What do you have to say about that, Valeska?"

The nine-year-old stared at his feet and awkwardly rubbed his arm. "I, I really can't. M-my uncle will be real mad if I try and steal any cookies."

"But it's a dare," Malcolm protested. "And not doing a dare has _consequences_." Suddenly, the larger boy dug his fingers into Jerome's hair, violently jerking him to the ground. "And you wouldn't want that, would you?"

"Please, Malcolm, n-not today." Jerome swallowed hard. Not going through would end with the twelve-year-old beating him up, no doubt cheered on by the others, but going through with it and getting caught would leave him facing the wrath of his uncle With distorted purple and blue bruises still on his back and stomach, he had no desire to anger him so soon. "Can't, can't someone else do it, please?"

"Hmm, let me think." A brief stint of contemplation ended with Malcolm tightening his grip even more, nails tearing crescent moons into Jerome's scalp, earning a broken yelp. "No. So make your choice, pipsqueak. You have ten seconds."

Without further prompting, the other five children began counting down, and Jerome bit his lower lip. He was the youngest and smallest of the kids at the circus, leaving him pitifully outnumbered, and he knew that they only let him hang around because they got some entertainment from his pain or embarrassment. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he said, right on _one_ , "I'll do it."

"There we go!" Malcolm immediately released his hold and helped Jerome to his feet, smiling as though he hadn't been threatening bodily harm mere moments ago. "C'mon, you got this! You've done it before."

He had, though only a handful of times, and he'd gotten caught once and hadn't been able to sleep that night, the beating was so bad. A second offense, on top of "mouthing off" a few days prior, would surely result in an even worse punishment. Still, he had a chance of succeeding, which would be enough to keep him in the group's good graces for at least a week, so he crept toward the chuck wagon.

The scent of cooling snickerdoodle cookies wafted through the air as soon as he crouched outside the wagon's open door, and he couldn't stop his mouth from watering. Glancing back toward the kids, receiving thumbs ups and silent applause, he carefully made his way up the two metal steps, painstakingly moving his feet to avoid any rustling.

Uncle Zach was barking orders at his two coworkers, the veteran chef Doris and the newly-joined Walt. They were all facing away from him and the ledge on which the cookies rested, attention on what Jerome figured was the soup for lunch. After watching them for nearly a minute, he concluded that they were too focused on their task to pay him any mind, so he inched toward his prize. Only on his tiptoes could he reach the cooling racks, but he grasped one between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it from the tray—

"What do you think you're doing?"

He whipped around, nearly losing his balance, to see Uncle Zach towering over him, hands on his hips and a snarl on his face.

"Oh, uh, hi there, Unc." Jerome smiled weakly, his right hand, the one holding the evidence, hanging awkwardly near his hip, too late to hide. "I, I just smelled some of your amazing cookies, and—"

"And you decided to be a little thief," his uncle snapped coldly.

"I, no, Unc, please—"

"I thought I taught you well enough what happens when you steal."

Cowering, Jerome glanced at Doris and Walt. Only the latter seemed remotely concerned. "I'll put it back, I promise."

"Oh, you certainly will. But you still need to be disciplined for this. Don't you?"

"Yes." It was barely a whisper.

A slap caught him across the face, leaving his ear ringing and causing him to drop the snickerdoodle. Too shocked to cry out, Jerome tenderly inspected the damage, flushing at the knowledge that Doris and Walt were witness.

"Yes _what_?"

"Yes sir," he amended pathetically.

"You know, nephew, it's getting awfully tiring trying to get some manners in you. First you were running off your mouth, now you're stealing. Again. My, my, boy, you are in for a good, long lesson in obedience." Grabbing Jerome by the wrist, Zach all but dragged him to the other side of the wagon.

Doris immediately moved out of the way, but Walt stood his ground, looking between man and child. There were a few terse seconds of silence, ended by Zach gruffly clearing his throat, and Walt finally abandoned his post to join the other chef.

"We work very, very hard to feed everyone at the circus," Zach explained, voice suddenly soft, catching Jerome by surprise. "This food is for everyone. And you taking one ahead of time…well, that just isn't fair, now is it?"

"No." Catching himself, he added, "Sir."

"Exactly." With ease, Zach lifted Jerome, holding him with one arm and pressing him against his chest. "And this soup here. Everyone deserves a nice, hot lunch. We're supposed to stick together around here, remember? And I just can't have you acting like a little hooligan. It's an embarrassment to myself and your poor mother, who I am sure is going to be very, very displeased when I tell her about this."

His lower lip trembled. "No, Unc, sir, please don't tell Mom. I'll, I'll take my punishment real good, I promise."

"See, I gotta tell her. First, you're her kid, and if she wants to punish you too, she's got that right. And second, I'm going to have to explain your hand to her."

Before Jerome could even question him, his uncle had gripped his right hand and shoved it into the boiling liquid. The burning was so intense that it tore a shriek from his throat, and he thrashed against Zach, trying in vain to jerk his hand from the chicken stock.

"So much for taking your punishment real good," his uncle jeered, undeterred by the fervent squirming. "Yell all you want, but I will decide when you've had enough."

"Please!" he sobbed, openly crying, in too much agony to even care. "Please, s-sir, please!"

Slowly, Zach removed his nephew's hand, bright red and littered with blisters. Setting him down on the floor, he turned him in the direction of Doris and Walt. "Now, don't you think you should apologize to them for being a dirty rotten thief?"

"I, I'm s-s-sorry for t-trying to steal," he managed through sniffles and dry heaves.

"That's a good boy," Zach praised. "But I can't say I'm convinced you've learned just yet. Doris, hold down the fort while I teach this little brat his place."

"No, Uncle Zach, please! I learned, I learned!"

Zach raised his hand as though to slap him once more, and Jerome shrunk, snapping him mouth shut. "Your lesson isn't over until I say it is. Now c'mon."

Jerome allowed himself to be hauled away, eyes on the ground so he wouldn't have to face Doris or Walt, the ache in his hand radiating pain throughout his body. As his uncle guided him to his trailer, Jerome saw that the other kids had scattered, and he was glad that they were not around to witness this, hoping they had left upon his capture and not upon hearing his screams.

At their destination, Zach shoved the boy inside and snapped, "You know the position."

Obediently, he went to the corner and knelt, nose to the floor and hands pressed against the wall above his head. It caused the burn to hurt even worse, but he dared not disobey.

"Now, you are to stay right here until I've come back with your mom. You move one inch, you will regret it. Are we understood?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

He heard his uncle's footsteps disappear, but he maintained his composure, knowing full-well that being found even slightly out-of-place would earn him an extra round of kicks or punches. Face still stinging from the slap, eyes now throbbing from crying, and hand radiating heat as the blisters popped, Jerome allowed himself to whimper quietly, wishing he'd refused the dare. Malcolm would have knocked him around, called him a few names, but he'd back off after a bit, bored and triumphant. Uncle Zach could go for almost an hour, and his mother would surely encourage him to go even longer.

A sharp kick to his side knocked him off balance, and he turned to see Uncle Zach, foot raised, and his mother standing to the side.

"You pathetic little bastard," she growled, voice already slurred from drinking, hair disheveled and clothes in disarray, and Jerome knew what she had been doing. "I'm getting real tired of your shit, you ungrateful brat. You hear me?"

"Yes, Mom," he murmured, and the next kick found his back.

With an overly dramatic sigh, she took a seat in the armchair. "Zach, you know what to do. I'll let you know when to stop."

Zach nodded and looked down at his nephew, wearing a harsh, almost demonic grin, and Jerome closed his eyes and tucked himself small and waited for the beating to end.


End file.
